It is either a conscience effort by some deep-dwelling part of my brain, or just a continual, frighteningly weird, coincidence:
I always seem to look up a clock, a watch, the time on a computer, a bank sign – fuck, anything that tells time – at exactly 12:34 p.m.
This happens several times a week.
Enough that I have, on occasion, played these numbers in the lottery (without a big payoff, but I hit a few bucks now and again).
Does this happen to anyone else out there?
It happened most recently on Wednesday. I was driving back from running errands, when I looked at a bank time and temperature sign. It blinked 12:34 p.m. I looked at my watch (which links itself automatically to the atomic clock in Boulder four times a day) and it confirmed the time: 12:34 p.m.
(I have a thing about time; yes, SkiGirl it’s all part of being orderly and anal-retentive. I have my good traits, too.)
But being conscious of a certain point of time in a 24-hour period is just eerie.
So last night, during that soft portion of the day just before sleep (I like that line, but will retire it with this post), I pondered what 12:34 p.m. might mean in my life.
And I’ve come up with a plausible explanation.
It’s a good theory, anyway.
I was born at 12:29 p.m. on March 20, 1963; I think I became conscious – sentient, self-aware – at 12:34 p.m. (those five minutes from birth to sentience were spent kicking and screaming in some red-faced whirl of animalistic rage, as nurses wiped me off and suctioned out my mouth and nasal cavity).
My mother liked to tell the story of my birth; we shared an interesting bond, since she said I was the only child she had out of five without the use of heavy doses of pain medication.
She was aware.
I became aware.
Just like this:
“They put you in the bassinet and wheeled you up to me,” she said. “You had this serious look on your face and then you looked me up and down – like you were sizing me up – and you shut your eyes and went to sleep.
The time: 12:34 p.m.
I’m sure of it.
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